


Take My Hand

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Episode Related, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Sibling Incest, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesare is forced to watch his sister consummate her marriage.</p><p>
  <i>She has ruined him for all others.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Borgias fic, and it's notable because I believe it's also my first attempt ever to write something in a historical setting. I hope I didn't screw that part of it up too badly!

Cesare sits, uncomfortable as it's possible to be, with the King of Naples only a couple feet away, being disgusting and objectionable, while his sister, the beautiful, incomparable Lucrezia slowly slips off her night-rail in front of her new husband.

And the King of Naples… and her brother. As Lucrezia drifts her hand down Alfonso's face, turning it so he's staring into her eyes, Cesare shifts in his seat, the hard back unforgivable against his body… or maybe it's the look on her face, the soft way she's gazing at her husband. Cesare remembers her face, so beautiful with tears running down her alabaster cheeks, only a few nights previous when she'd climbed into his bed and caressed him with the hands of a lover.

Of course it's wrong, Cesare knows that; but they are the unholy family, as he told her. Did he invite her in with those words? Did he begin something he can never stop? Because to stop touching her, to stop being close to her… it would be paramount to stop _loving_ her, and he knows he can never do that.

Cesare tries to keep his eyes on her face as she climbs up onto the bed provided, pulling Alfonso along by the hand, but he can't quite stop his gaze from travelling lower, drinking her in as if he hasn't already had her, as if he's still in that godless place of want, and wanting, of watching her with greedy eyes and taking, taking, taking what he never should have taken…

That kiss in front of the seating chart, he'll never know now whether it's his fault. Did she want him too? Had she ever even thought of it, before he poisoned her mind like he poisoned Cardinal Orsini? She had been so achingly beautiful, and she had been so… despondent, he had only wanted to make her smile, but he'd gotten so careless, so trapped by her eyes and her lips and the longing glances she bestowed on him like gifts he had no right to accept. Had he imagined it all?

Then he had kissed her. He had said, _Forgive me,_ but how could she?

Her lovely skin glows in the firelight, a pure white that belies the inky-dark stain he's left upon her, the marks of their love. Her husband had proved ungallant on her wedding night, pushing her away with angry words, until Cesare woke with her name still on his lips to find her crawling into his bed, loosening the knot at the throat of her shift and baring herself to him.

Now, Lucrezia moves restlessly, grunting a bit in what might be pain as the inexperienced Alfonso tries to enter her. And after the night they shared, Cesare can only guess at what she might be thinking. Is she remembering how it felt to have Cesare slide into her, clicking into place like a perfect fit? God knows, Cesare is thinking of it now: his anxious cock, her soft, welcoming body, the smooth inner walls that had pulsed around him. It was like being born anew: like being a virgin again, taking his very first woman, only it was also horrible, because as wonderful as it was, he knew he could never _truly_ have her, could never keep her as his own.

She had ruined him for all others.

"My eyes," Lucrezia murmured, but somehow loud in the near-silence of the room, and somehow pitched in such a way that it shot a bolt of feeling straight through Cesare, to settle in his cock, which swelled and became heavy, needy in his leathers. He was desperate to reach down and try to relieve the ache, but he couldn't, not with the King of Naples right there: he could only press the heel of his hand against his breastbone and try to breathe through the knot in his chest.

"Just me," Lucrezia whispered, but now her face turned away from her husband, and her eyes met Cesare's. She held his gaze, and he thought of her eyes, and he could not look away, no matter how much it ached and hurt, no matter how much his breath caught in his throat like a knife.

Cesare forgot everything but her: he couldn't think of a single thing besides the emotion pooled in her eyes as she kept her gaze locked on his. The emotion that echoed in his heart, turning from one small flicker into a raging inferno—had he ever loved before? Could he honestly say he had loved, before her?

There were a million words unspoken in her eyes, entreaties he'd never be allowed to hear out loud, but all she had to do was keep his eyes on hers and he could hear every word, it seemed like. His cock swelled further against the confines of his laces, and Cesare bit his lower lip, clenching it painfully between his teeth as a surge of lust so hard it almost knocked him out swept through him. Lucrezia was getting louder, her grunts of discomfort turned to soft pants of burgeoning pleasure.

Cesare knew what she was thinking, and he couldn't bring himself to regret that the desire, the lust, in her eyes: he'd put it there. She may claim to love her husband, but as he fucks her, Lucrezia is thinking of her brother. She's thinking of Cesare; her red, plump mouth is parted, her breath is gasping from her lungs as she reaches higher and higher for that pinnacle.

His sister is smart enough not to mouth his name, or breathe it aloud; she cries out, her moans becoming increasingly frantic, but her gaze is glued to his as her orgasm bursts over her.

Only then do her eyes close, and only for the briefest instant. And Cesare mouths, _Lucrezia_ , and the tiniest smile tugs at her lips before she finally turns away, back to her husband.

For his part, Cesare is dying. He could've come just from watching her, but he was lucky, in a way, that Frederick of Naples was sitting just _right there_ ; it held his desire in check just enough. When the king stood up and turned away, Cesare seized the moment and adjusted himself before following the repellent man out of the room.

"Now, you may tell your father that the matter has been dealt with to my… satisfaction."

Cesare wants to gut him with a kitchen knife, like he once promised his cherished sister.

"And you may get out of my house," Cesare bites out, already furious by the demand, made more bitter and vitriolic by his own thwarted desire. Not that Frederick could have known that watching his sister make love could have this effect on him, the once-cardinal and allegedly holy man, and her _brother_.

But Lucrezia knew: she knew it when she said she wanted Cesare to bear witness. Thoughts tumble confusedly around his brain. _Did_ she know what it would do to him?

Or was it something much simpler: that she didn't love her husband _quite enough_ and she needed Cesare to be there, to see?

And now that he's seen, he can't unsee. It tangles up with his memories of her from a few nights ago and they become inextricably entwined, and Cesare knows he'll never separate those moments of sublime bliss, when he was sheathed in her body like a sword in the perfect scabbard, from these moments of her climax as she watched her brother. As she used her brother as an aphrodisiac to reach completion.

"Lucrezia," Cesare whispers as Frederick's heels clatter down the hall. He'd known she had come to him of her own free will on her wedding night; he'd known she wasn't faking desire or repulsed by his lusts for her. Somehow she had known. Perhaps she had known because she had loved Cesare for as long as he had loved her—well, not quite, because Cesare was older, but close enough. Lucrezia used to reach for him as a baby when she wanted soothing, and Cesare had never once held back—why should he start now? Lucrezia had done what she'd always done, reached for him, wanted soothing, to be loved, and so Cesare had taken what was on offer, had buried himself in her willing flesh and thrust until they'd both gasped, trembling in each other's arms.

"My love," Cesare says, eyes closing on the piercing pain in his heart. Had he done this to them? Had his baser instincts, his unnatural desires, colored their interactions in such a way that he had confused Lucrezia, garnered her desire where it wasn't warranted? He didn't know. It ate at him, the not knowing, the guessing, the wondering whether Lucrezia would have loved him like this if he'd been just a little bit different when they were growing up.

Cesare slides down the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, and stares morosely at the thickened bulge in his breeches. He reaches down, but his hand halts just before he can touch himself; even the heat of his hand so close to his desperate cock makes him shiver, a full-body tremble shaking through him, and he's so preoccupied he doesn't hear her until she's kneeling next to him in her night-rail, and her soft, small hand slips beneath his in the hairsbreadth of space and presses directly down against him, the pulsing ridge.

"Ah, God, _Lucrezia_ ," Cesare gasps; can't stop his hips from pulling away from the floor, can't keep his pelvis from arching up into her hand.

"Cesare," she says, and he opens his eyes wide and stares at her, at every beautiful inch of skin on display—which isn't as much as he'd want—and catches her quick glance around the hallway. Then she darts down, her lips a sudden gift, pressing against his.

It's not a passionate kiss like it was in his bedchamber, not the kiss of a lover exactly, but the way she bestows it speaks of being his lover, and Cesare twitches, and his cock spasms, and just like that, he's done. She smiles against his mouth, her breath hot and sweet against his face, and then she pulls back. "There you are," she says, "there you are, my brother."

What he is, is sticky and soiled now, but he'd gladly take that every day if it meant lying with her, holding her, being pleasured by her body—his beloved sister.

"Sis," he murmurs, hand coiling in her unbound hair. He pulls a hank of it to his face, inhaling the gentle fragrance, and rubbing it against his lips. "My love, my love," he breathes, unable to stop himself. Has he ever felt anything like this?

It's too soon when she pulls back, it will always be too soon, there will never be enough time in the world to love her, to be with her, and the time together they have is already small enough. Forever wouldn't be long enough to worship at the altar of her body.

"I must go, Cesare," Lucrezia says, getting to her feet. She holds out her hands, though, and this time, _Cesare_ is the one reaching, arms extended, as he takes her hands.

END.


End file.
